10. Chapter 10
Chapter ten
A dam
It’s 6:00 p.m. when I arrive home the next night. I push open my front door and am greeted by the sight of Jessica’s ass as she bends over to look in the oven. It’s an exquisite sight. My condo smells like brown sugar and butter just had sex, which makes sense when I see the rack of chocolate chip cookies cooling next to the sink.
“You’re here!” she cries out warmly once she stands and sees me. A wide smile spreads over her face.
I freeze like a gazelle that’s been spotted by a lion. My heart thuds painfully, and a claustrophobic panic swirls in my gut.
This is too much. Too domestic. Too happy. Too goddamn nice .
“I’m going to go change,” I mumble and turn on my heel, fleeing down the hall to my bedroom. I move fast but not before I see the disappointment on Jessica’s face. The way her shoulders slump.
Fuck .
I made her feel bad, which makes me feel bad. This is the problem. I’m not cut out for this. I’m not designed to make people happy. I don’t know how to act normal. I never saw what that looked like growing up.
In my bathroom, I peel off my scrubs and throw them in the hamper. Standing only in my boxer briefs, I place my hands on the edge of the sink and let my head drop forward. Closing my eyes, I count to twenty-two and give myself a pep talk.
You can do this. Just go out there and talk to her. Eat her food and wash the dishes and say thank you. You’ve watched enough sitcoms to figure this out, you moron.
Even my internal dialogue thinks I’m an idiot.
I straighten, square my shoulders, let out a deep breath, and get dressed in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt.
She’s at the table when I come back out, the food in front of her so fresh it’s still steaming. A matching plate sits at the place setting across from her. I take the seat there and admire the Pasta Carbonara she’s made along with a leafy green salad and crusty garlic bread.
Jessica sips her wine and eyes me silently as I serve myself. Her gaze is sharp, which makes me want to hide but also warms me. I want to bask in her attention.
“What was that?” she asks.
I pretend not to understand. “What?”
“You running away just now. You looked like you thought I was going to attack you with a knife and serve you up for dinner.”
I laugh, the sound artificial even to my ears. “I had to change out of my scrubs. That’s all.” I set my jaw and give her my frosty stare, the one that sends the nurses scrambling back at the hospital.
It doesn’t work.
Jessica isn’t scared of me, although she should be.
“I don’t think so.” She focuses on me, laser sharp, and I resist the urge to shrink into myself. “I think you got spooked. I think you’re wishing you were on your own right now. That you could do whatever you do when I’m not here. Like walk around naked or masturbate while looking out your window at the city below.”
“Jessica!” I say, slightly scandalized, which I know is hypocritical given what’s in the locked room.
She’s on a roll now. My protesting doesn’t even slow her down.
“I’ve snooped all over this condo,” she admits with her chin resting in her hand. Her food sits before her, uneaten. “Know what I found?”
Alarmed, I ask, “What?”
“Nothing. Big fat nothing.” Those green eyes never leave my face. “Being here is like living with a ghost. There’s nothing personal. No photos or scrapbooks or even documents, beyond your medical license and that kind of stuff.” She looks over at my bookshelves. “You have a ton of books, every genre imaginable, which is a perfect example of what I’m talking about.”
“How so?” I ask. There’s a part of me that wants to know more. To see how she views me.
“Usually, you can tell a lot about someone based on the books they read. Sci-fi, they like politics and have a good imagination. Historical fiction, they like war and figuring out how events in the past affect us today. Romance readers are hopeful—they think everyone can be redeemed. But you ,” accusation mixes with her words, “ you read it all. As a result, when I look at your bookshelves I’m left knowing you no better than I did two months ago when I first walked into your office.”
No idea what to say to that. I’ve lived my life trying very hard not to be known, and, according to Jessica, I’ve done a damn good job of it.
I should feel proud of myself…but I don’t.
“Do you need to know me?” I ask, not sure what answer I want to hear.
“Yes,” she says simply. “I would like that.”
I swallow, look away. “I have a past I’m not proud of, so I’d rather not talk about it.”
A long silence as she considers this. “Fine. Then don’t. Talk about the present. Tell me about your day, about your favorite food so I can cook it for you. Teach me about the stock market, about medicine. If you don’t want to look backward, we can look forward.”
Some of the tension drains out of my body at that. I was worried she’d pry. Dig up all the bones in my graveyard and, worst of all, find out who I really am. How can I explain it now? That I knew her back in high school. The time for that conversation was months ago.
“I think I can do that. At least I’ll try,” I promise. I raise my wine glass to her. “To the future.”
She clinks her glass against mine. “The future,” she echoes, her voice soft but weighted. She takes a sip of her wine, her eyes lingering on mine, searching for truths I’m not ready to reveal. If she knew everything, she wouldn’t be sitting here. She wouldn’t be smiling at me, cooking me dinner, or hoping for a future.
She’d be running.
Jessica
Things shift after that first dinner together.
Not like a landslide. West doesn’t just open up and start telling me all his secrets.
No. He lets me in like a leaking faucet, in dribbles and drabbles. Some nights when he gets home, he’s tired or extra wary of me. Those times I get one-word answers and an excuse about needing to go to bed early. Other nights he’s more energized. Those are my favorite times, when he speaks long paragraphs about an interesting patient he had that day or about how he wants to invest in a new company that uses external brain wave stimulation to control epilepsy. In those rare shining moments, he loses his brooding man vibes and gains a boyish quality, open and unguarded.
In return, I tell him about my day—about my students. Milo, who aces every test but never turns in his homework because he works two jobs after school to help support his family. Kieke, whose family has moved three times in the past five months, bouncing between couches and unable to find stability. I slip granola bars into her backpack when she’s not looking, and, though we never talk about it, she always leaves her bag unzipped.
Not all my stories are heavy, though. There’s Beck, who just won the local science fair, and Ari—quiet, withdrawn Ari—who, with a little nudge from me, went from never speaking in class to starting his own e-sports club. Now he’s leading it with the kind of confidence I always knew was there.
At first, I’m hesitant to tell West everything. Sometimes, the things I share make him frown, a flicker of judgment in the downturn of his mouth. I hold back, editing out certain details, afraid he’ll say I’m too invested. Over time, something shifts. He starts to show interest in these students he’s never met, asking about them over dinner. How did Sam do on his test? Is Cheri still dating Nick? Slowly, the judgment fades, replaced by a curiosity that makes me feel a little less alone in carrying the weight of their stories.
Before I know it, a month has passed, and this condo, which once felt overwhelmingly opulent, now feels like home. I shouldn’t get too comfortable, though. This is only temporary. Every day I still search for Chicago apartments and New York jobs online. Eventually I’ll find a new home here or a new job in New York and then I’ll have to leave.
The thought fills me with sadness. I wouldn’t have called myself lonely before. I had friends and went on dates, but now that I’ve lived with West, I see that I was lonely. Going out with friends and dates all ended by 11:00 p.m., and the empty hours that followed were hollow. I used to putter around my apartment until 2:00 a.m., vacuuming my already clean floor and overwatering my houseplants until they all died in an effort to keep myself busy. I don’t do those things anymore. Now I stay up with West, talking or reading next to him until my eyelids droop and I yawn. Then I climb up the spiral stairs to my room and fall asleep with the echo of his voice and the flash of his mirror eyes in my mind.
West would never admit it, but the contented sigh he lets out as he sits beside me on the couch, paired with the subtle glances he keeps sneaking my way, tells me he was lonely before too.
As comfortable as everything is, two mysteries nag at me. One, why aren’t we having sex, and two, what’s in that locked room downstairs?
To answer number one, I run through the possibilities. Maybe he doesn’t find me attractive anymore? To test this theory, I wear my shortest skirt, the one that shows my butt when I bend over. It’s black and pleated, almost like my old cheerleading skirt. I pair it with a tight white crop top and my favorite beaten-up Vans.
That day West comes home and skids to a stop in the doorway. He stares at me with wide, gray eyes, which he then tilts to the ceiling and squeezes shut. Hand rubbing his temple, he stays there muttering to himself. I hear the whisper of his voice, counting 1, 2, 3, 4… The rest of the night he barely looks at me. The one time I put my hand on his shoulder when I walk by, he jumps like he was bitten by a rattlesnake.
By the end of the evening, I’m convinced he doesn’t like me that way anymore. Most likely, I’ve been friend-zoned. A common occurrence for me since I’m so “nice.”
Ugh .
No woman wants the hottest man she ever saw to just think of her as “nice.”
I give up on the idea of being more than friends with West and focus instead on the locked door. When I pass the room, I hear a low whirring sound, like the noise a computer makes when its fan turns on. Even more strange is that when it’s dark a flickering white light shines out from under the door. It strobes flashes of white, gray, and black across the hallway floor.
Intrigued, I search for the locked room’s key in every drawer and cupboard but find nothing. West either carries it with him or keeps it at his office. I try to pick the lock with an old bobby pin. In the movies that always works, but in real life half of the bobby pin breaks off and gets stuck in the lock mechanism. I spend a sweat-filled thirty minutes using every tool—kitchen knife, toothpick, another bobby pin—to get it free. I’m already rehearsing what excuse I’ll give West for ruining his lock when I finally get the piece out using my favorite eyebrow tweezers.
Thank God!
At that moment, the front door opens, and West strides in. I hide the tweezers behind my back, which is ridiculous because there’s nothing inherently suspicious about them. The weird thing is that West is also hiding something behind his back, except his is harder to hide because it’s a huge white box tied with a shiny red bow.
Is that for me?
It can’t be, right?
If it’s not for me, that means it’s for another woman, which makes me want to melt into a puddle of tears and then throw these extremely pointy tweezers at his head. Seeing what these things do to my eyebrows, I could do some serious damage with them. I grasp the tweezers more tightly in my hand and ask, “What’cha got there, West?”
The guilty flush that climbs his cheeks has me gritting my teeth. I’m about to play dartboard with his face when he clears his throat and says, “I need to talk to you.”
Oh God, here we go. This is when he tells me to move out so his seven-foot-tall supermodel girlfriend can move in. I bet he won’t make her live up the spiral staircase tower like Rapunzel.
I send him a glare that makes him flinch backward, a puzzled frown pulling at his mouth. “Are you okay?” he asks me.
“Fine.” I put the tweezers in my pocket and slouch into the living room, where I fling myself on the couch, already planning my next steps.
Monica will let me sleep on her couch if I ask.
West sits next to me. He carefully places the box between us, handling it like it’s a stick of dynamite that’ll explode if he moves too fast.
I eye the package, resisting the urge to childishly knock it onto the floor and stomp on it.
“Well?” I prompt.
“You’re coming with me to the charity gala on Friday,” he says, his lips pursed and jaw set. He stares at the carpet like he’s inviting it rather than me.
“What?!” My brows hit my hairline. That definitely wasn’t what I was expecting. A pleasant warmth runs through me. He’s not kicking me out. He’s taking me out. My happy feeling is quickly replaced by annoyance once I fully process the arrogant way he just said it.
“Are you ordering me or asking me?”
Gray eyes drift to mine and then bounce away. “Um, asking, of course. Didn’t I ask?”
“No. You didn’t,” I answer, my tone flat.
He clasps his hands in his lap and manages to look contrite. “Sorry. I’m a little nervous.”
At that admission, my hard feelings melt away like a snow cone on a summer day. “Where’s this gala? What’s it about?”
“It’s at the Art Institute of Chicago downtown,” he explains. “It’s in their conservatory. They have it every year. There’s an auction to raise money, and they always ask me to donate a prize. I usually say no, but this year they’re fundraising for a charity that supports homeless children and teenagers.”
“You want to help out?” I scoot closer, loving this generous and bashful version of West. I’ve never seen him like this, but I guess he’s never had to ask me for anything before. I’ve always been the one begging for favors.
He nods, staring at his hands. “I always want to help kids. When I started medical school, I thought I’d be a pediatrician.”
“What made you change your mind and go into obstetrics/gynecology instead?” I’ve wondered about his choice of specialty before. It’s not common to see men in that profession.
“I realized that by the time you see a kid with something wrong, it’s already too late. I figured the most important person in a child’s life is their mother. Give a kid a healthy mom, in both mind and body, and the kid has the best chance for success.”
My heart warms, thinking about how selfless he is. To make his career choice based on the needs of others.
“I guess we have that in common,” I tell him, lightly bumping my arm against his. “We both want to help kids.”
A small smile from him. “I guess so.”
“You want me to go to this gala?” I ask, refocusing on his earlier question.
“I need you to help me with the prize.”
“The one they’re auctioning off? What is it?”
“Me.” He lifts his head. “They’re auctioning off me.”
“Come again?”
“It’s a date with me. That’s the grand prize. I think it’s stupid, but one of my partners’ wives is organizing the whole thing. She gave me this big speech about how I’d be doing it for a good cause and everything. Next thing I knew, I’d agreed to it.” He leans close to me and, in a scratchy whisper, says, “She’s like a wizard. You listen to her talk in circles long enough, and you’ll agree to anything she says. Wait until you meet her, and you’ll see what I mean.”
I blink, trying to wrap my head around this plan. “If you’ll end up with a date from this thing, why do you need me?”
“Because I don’t want to date any of the women who will be at the gala. There’s several who’ve already said they’re going to bid on me, including a top hospital administrator who I detest.” He leans back against the couch, scrubs his hand across his face, and groans.
“I can’t get you out of it if you already said you’d do it.” My rule-following instincts rebel at the very idea. I was always the kid who ended up as the only guest at the unpopular kids’ birthday parties because I’d agreed the moment they gave me the invitation. Even if a better party came up at the same time, I’d stick with whoever I said yes to first.
“I’m not asking you to get me out of it. I need you to bid for me. You have to win the date, so the other women don’t get it. You can use my money. Spend as much as it takes. Sky’s the limit.”
“You want me to spend your money to win you ?” I clarify.
“Exactly.” He nods, a hopeful expression lighting his face. “Plus, you’ll get a good dinner and free booze. They have an open bar.”
I hold up my hand. “Wait. You’re telling me I get free food and alcohol and I get to spend your money?”
His lips twitch with a smile.
With a grin, I throw up my hands and say, “I’m in! I mean, how could this get any better?”
“Well…” He nudges the box my way. “This might make it a little better.”
I gather the package into my lap. “You got this for me?”
West ducks his head. “I was worried you’d take a lot of convincing, so I wanted to sweeten the pot.”
I laugh, the sound lifting into the air. “You underestimate how easy I am.” West gives me one of his famous eye rolls, and I chuckle. A few tugs on the end of the bow unties it. The silky ribbon slips to the floor by my feet.
West bends down to fetch it, his face at the level of my knee. He pauses there, then tentatively reaches out. I’m wearing shorts so I feel every cell in my body rejoice when his warm hand wraps around my ankle and slides with agonizing slowness up the front of my leg to my knee. He stares at his hand on my leg, his eyes unfocused like he’s mesmerized. It’s the first time he’s voluntarily touched me in forever, and just that slight contact has my heart racing. His gaze flicks up to mine, and the spell breaks. West snatches his hand away like I’m on fire and he doesn’t want to get burned.
“Open the gift,” he says, suddenly brusque. He crosses his arms over his chest.
I try not to take offense. I’m getting used to it now, this push and pull. He’s like the ocean—advancing to high tide and then retreating, leaving broken seashells in his wake. I focus on the box, letting the childish excitement of opening a gift displace any awkwardness between us. When I lift the lid and brush aside the gauzy pink tissue paper, I gasp out loud.
“West!” I cry out as I pull the dress from the box. It unfolds in my hands, yards of scarlet silk and tulle cascade to the floor. “It’s gorgeous!” Standing, I hold it up to myself and give a little twirl.
The dress has thin spaghetti straps, the bodice shaped like a corset with a wide ribbon that ties up the back in a crisscross pattern. The skirt is full but not too wide, with an overlay of tulle studded with tiny crystals and rhinestones. It shimmers and glitters as I sway.
West watches me, a small smile playing on his lips. “Do you like it?”
“Like it?!” I exclaim. “I love it!”
“Why don’t you go try it on? Make sure we don’t need to call in a tailor before Friday.”
“Good idea,” I agree, turning to go to the bathroom, but then I stop. That lingering touch on my leg has given me hope. Maybe romance between us isn’t a total lost cause. I turn back to him and gather up my courage. Right there, in the living room, I strip off my shirt and shorts so that all I am wearing is my bra and matching lavender panties. West stares at me without blinking, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Just when I’m about to claim victory, his expression hardens and he glares up at me.
“Try it on,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Okay. Jeez.” I widen my eyes. So much for attempting to seduce him. I was hoping that seeing me half-naked would end up with us doing it on the living room floor, but no such luck. Quickly, I pull the gown over my head. Of course, it gets stuck halfway so my arms are poking from the top but I can’t get them out far enough to push the dress all the way down.
“A little help here,” I say, my voice muffled from the layers of fabric that cover my face.
Even through the dress I can hear his impatient sigh. It takes both of us working together to yank the dress down and straighten it out.
Once that’s done, I present my back to him. “Tie me up?”
I can’t see his face, but I hear the strangled noise that rises from the back of his throat.
Oops. Didn’t mean it like that.
I have a Scarlett O’Hara moment as he takes the ribbon and pulls it tight, cinching the top of the dress close to my body. It forces my breasts upward, so they look fuller than usual.
With one last tug on the laces, he says, “All done.”
I spin to face him, arms outstretched, grinning because even without a mirror, I know I look incredible. The dress molds to my body like a second skin, the silky fabric whispering over every curve. I hadn’t noticed before, but now that I’m wearing it, I feel the way the plunging neckline frames my cleavage, how the fitted bodice accentuates my waist before flaring into a skirt that flows like water when I move.
Then, there’s the slit.
High—dangerously high—running up my thigh to reveal flashes of bare skin with every step, every shift of my hips.
West’s gaze travels down, slow and deliberate, lingering first at my exposed neckline before dipping lower, tracing the curve of my leg where the dress parts. His eyes darken slightly, his jaw tightening. For a long second, he doesn’t speak.
Finally, his eyes return to mine. I almost pass out from joy when he says a simple, “Beautiful.”
I want to ask if I’m beautiful or if the dress is, but I’m too scared of the answer so I just beam at him and say, “I love it. Thank you.”
That makes him smile, the full relaxed grin that extends all the way to his eyes. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve seen that expression on his handsome face.
“I bought shoes to match,” he tells me. “The same color. Hopefully they’ll fit. I looked at the heels in your closet the other day when you weren’t back yet so I could figure out the right size.”
My hand goes to my chest. “That was so thoughtful of you.”
I get another of those special smiles. We lock gazes, and there’s a frozen second where I feel it—a connection zinging between us. Intense and intimate. I lean toward West, and he bends to me. I zero in on his lips, the need to kiss him so strong that I’m already imagining what he tastes like. We get inches apart when the hazy expression on his face suddenly clears. He rears back and jerks his head to the side, narrowly missing my mouth.
Shit .
I lost him again.
His expression shutters, and there’s a purposeful harshness when he says, “Yeah, everyone’s going to be looking to see who’s bidding on me, so I need you to look the part.”
I deflate. My arms drop to my sides. I sigh, reminding myself not to take it too personally. I know this is a defense mechanism of his, but still…he’s lucky I’m not holding my tweezers.